Pho is a beautiful thing. A hot, savory, slurpy bowl of noodle soup is universally comforting, but fresh beansprouts, the warming effect of star anise, ginger, and cinnamon on rich beefy broth, savory bits of thin rare beef, chewy meatballs, and fresh herby hits of Thai basil and green onion take it to the level of "I must have this now or I will kill people" craveability.
Pho is considered the national dish of Vietnam, where it's eaten first thing in the morning. I first found out about it when I tutored for a Vietnamese family in high school. I would head over around 6pm every day, straight from hitting the gym after school, and the kids would be sitting in the kitchen eating whatever their parents left in the fridge for them. I was astounded by 1) how the hell an 8 year old could eat tablespoons of Sriracha on everything without crying or breaking a sweat, and 2) how awesome everything looked. I would ask the kids what they were eating, they would tell me, and then proceed to laugh hysterically when I tried to repeat. "Phow?" "Bayhn mee?" Hahahhaha.
While its dishes may be an awkward mouthful, Vietnamese is one of the world's greatest cuisines - it fuses the comfort of French comfort foods (baguette, pate, roast pork, crepes) with Asian freshness/funk (pickled daikon, cilantro, Thai basil, cucumber, fish sauce - lots of fish sauce).
My senior year of high school, a Vietnamese restaurant opened in the unlikeliest of places: a strip mall. In suburban Middle Tennessee. Next to Target. It was Miss Saigon. Call me a cynic, but I doubted very much that the soccer mom set would be adventurous enough to bypass Subway and Honeybaked Ham to tuck into some vermicelli and tofu or lettuce wraps with egg and shrimp crepe. But I jumped on the opportunity to actually sit and savor my very own plate of Vietnamese cooking rather than looking lustfully at the kids' dinner until they politely offered me bites of whatever they were having.
And Miss Saigon and I began a beautiful relationship. I remember my first bowl of pho there. I ordered and the waiter kept gently correcting my pronunciation. A huge steaming bowl of broth and noodles came out, and the matron of the place practically held my spoon while she showed me the proper way to eat it. Garnish with beansprouts and basil. Squeeze some lime. Put the jalepenos in if you like it spicy. Take the chopsticks in one hand, the spoon in the other. Put the noodles in first, then dip in to some broth. A squirt of hoisin, a squirt of sriracha. Slurp. Repeat. While I sampled other things, the pho was what kept me coming back. I was addicted. I couldn't get enough.
When I went off to college, every time I came back home I would make it a point to skip breakfast and head to Miss Saigon hungry for a huge bowl of pho. And year after year, I would pull into the parking lot, practically with my hands over my eyes, hoping that the fates were kind and that Miss Saigon survived another year in a cultural abyss of suburban whitebread tastes. And year after year, to my self-serving delight, it did.
Until this year. Mom and I pulled up, hungry for pho, and the sign made my heart drop. "Closed for Remodeling. Grand Reopening July 23rd."
Disappointed, I resolved to come back. And I did. And my heart sank lower when I saw the sign. Saigon... TOKYO? They are nowhere near each other. Their cuisines are nothing alike. Sushi and bahn mi do not speak the same language, and should not be served under the same roof. The cultural authenticity snob in me wanted so badly to hate it.
But the business pragmatist understood. White people want sushi. And teriyaki chicken. And fried rice. And you gotta give the people what they want.
Basil also recently succumbed to the sushi bar. And that's fine in my book, as long as the proprietors still serve some food with some soul.
And soul the restaurant has indeed. This picture is the offering immediately outside the restaurant. Most Vietnamese are Buddhist, and it is customary to offer up sweets, fruits, and flowers for good fortune in new ventures. The kids enthusiastically showed me their "Buddha room," a small little altar the family had set up in the office nook at the front of their home. It was a good sign, as was the lively crowd of Vietnamese friends and family of the new proprietors hanging out in the restaurant over big bowls of soup.
I avoided the sushi bar and gained immediate respect when my only response to the owners' nervous apologies for the limited menu of sushi, noodles, and spring rolls was "yeah, but you still have pho, right?" And pho they did have. It was certainly different than Miss Saigon's - it was heavier on the cinnamon and anise, and the portion was less oppressively huge. But it was still really satisfying and delicious, and it still has that charming family run feel. Pho is not a dish one can eat gracefully. The slurping. The heat. You end up with soup and snot all over your face, or at least I do. The restaurant was still in the process of getting organized and halfway through my soup I realized there were no paper goods on the table and had to get up and snoop around for something with which to mop my face. After 30 seconds of wandering around wiping my nose on my forearm, the matron of the restaurant came running to my rescue. She stooped down next to me in my booth, holding my hand and patting my back, apologizing profusely and laughing gently. "It's not a big deal, seriously, I am just making a mess."
"It's pho! You enjoy pho."
A command, an explanation, but so much the truth.
Whilst in Nashville before my big move to Brooklyn, I went to 3 Crow Bar. Twice. In one week. Sunday and Wednesday. For why, you might ask? Well, my friend Ryan, who is married to one of my besties, and his Mean Tamborines mates enjoy 3 Crow Bar very much on those nights for the 2 for 1 specials. Double drinks or two beers for $4.75, which you can drink on their amazing patio among many many cutoff jean shorts and plaid flannel shirts. It's a great deal in a very neighborhoody setting with great people watching. My caveat is that my love for 3 Crow turns into straight up disdain during the cooler months or when the weather is crappy. Nashville still allows smoking inside for bars that are 21+, and the chain smoking clientele combined with poor ventilation makes the atmosphere more like Aushwitz than awesome.
